Enough is enough…all right!? I mean, how much more can a guy take? Adding insult to injury was never attractive, nor the proper thing to do. It’s not like I didn’t have enough dings in my body from shopping on Black Friday that I needed to be hit again. This time, sucker punched. Not only that, but I am still healing from the deep cut experienced a couple of years ago.
Confused?...So am I. To use ghetto parlance, “Why they gotta be hatin’?” Today, while decompressing from a brief exposure to Black Friday shopping, I perused the Internet. Totally harmless, right? So I thought. I went to a completely innocuous site. It is a site I visit regularly to get my news of the world. Completely credible. It’s FoxNews.com. It was then and there that I discovered some bonehead at DC Comics decided to knock off Batman. I mean totally whack the poor bastard. I thought it was a complete disregard for protocol and manners. The smug S.O.B. actually sounded upbeat and chipper about the whole matter in the interview. Damned punk!
Technically, Batman is not actually dead. Yeah, right! Supposedly, Bruce Wayne was killed by a mysterious stranger claiming to be none other than his long-thought dead father. Weird and creepy, but a cool Shakespearean plot twist. Excellent for Hamlet or Macbeth, but not for the Dark Knight. No way, no how. Perhaps I am a bit too much of a traditionalist, but you just don’t treat superheroes that way. It’s disrespectful.
Of course, there is still the unresolved issue of the assassination of Captain America that occurred two years ago. Now, I can’t bellow and whine too much, because I always get a great lesson out of it for my American History classes each year. However, you still don’t need to go off and kill an icon such as Captain America or Batman on a whim. I believe the blame rests squarely on two individuals equally.
The editor and writer should both have their heads on a block for this lame brained move. Cruel and unusual punishment you say? Go ask Bruce Wayne and Steve Rogers what they think about this bold editorial move? I mean, I see no need for a head if you are not going to use it or its only use is as a rectal probe. Killing off a major superhero seems like a wimpy way of boosting sales or to get out of an embarrassing spot of writer’s block. It is just totally unacceptable. If it’s a tight creative spot your crew can’t get out of, maybe you don’t have the right people doing the job…
A bit too rash in my response? I think not…Just look at the other headlines swarming the news today and take a little reality trip with me. Senseless terrorist bombings in India, stocks still shaky, and employment a gamble at best is what most of us have to deal with. Now untie this paradox for me. Why kill off national and cultural icons now?
Perhaps you might answer to shake things up a bit. Or maybe to grab peoples’ attention and make them sit up for a moment. Aren’t we already doing enough of that? Don ‘t we deserve a little respite for the over taxing stimulus and sensations thrown at us every waking moment of every day? Maybe I am just yelling at a wall here, but it works. Just looked what happened in Berlin in 1989. Don’t stop speaking, even if you the only voice. Listen to us you corporate greed mongers, and quit killing our superheroes.
Friday, November 28, 2008
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Thinking about being thankful
It is the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. The bird is in the midst of its thawing bath, the pumpkin pie cheese cakes are cooling and the banana bread is finishing its tour of duty in the oven. Forecasts call for a rainy cool front to cone through sometime tomorrow. Luckily I have firewood split and plan on bringing in an extra load first thing tomorrow. But not everything is routine or rosy.
I don’t have to tell anyone about the anxiety gripping the nation. It’s as if the Grinch came early and came hard. And I don’t have any pat answers or solutions to the problems we are wrestling with. I always remember what I was once told when I found myself in a state of seemingly unending existential dread and anxiety. Basically the maxim goes that you can cry in your cornflakes, but it only will make them soggier. With this in mind, I did what most red-blooded Americans do. I jumped on the internet.
Nostalgia quickly set in. I have been assured this is a terminal issue, especially with history teachers. I wanted to listen to music. Something soothing. Something with soul. Something with a message of hope. I had recently changed my setting on my Gmail account to one with backgrounds of outer space. This tripped the memory fantastic.
As the seasons have changed, my mood has moved with the stars. Saturn and Venus are about to align in their interstellar dance. I joked with my wife on night on our regular constitutionals around the block with our dog, that this was our dance playing out among the heavens. After sixteen years of connubial bliss, no questions were asked about which plant was who in the duet. This got me thinking about Vangelis.
Odd, I know. Things seem to work out this way. But I remember watching Cosmos on PBS, thinking that Carl Sagan was related to our nerdy, Northern neighbor across the street and loving the music. Of course, thanks to the miracle of modern technology, the track was available online for my listening pleasure. And listen I did.
Not only did I listen to that particular track, but many others that evening. It was a beautiful stroll down memory lane, literally. It was blissful and relaxing. I am sure that there is some sort of psychological and/or physiological, and possibly theological, aspect and explanation of this particular phenomenal experience. However, I don’t want to know and do not particularly care for an explanation. I am happy as is.
And that’s when it hit. I was happy. It was wonderful. Looking around, seeing the mess we are currently in, I was still smiling. Why? Because I found some things to be grateful and thankful for. Of course, I am always thankful for my family, my country, and most of all for my Savior. But time and again, little things pop up that add to these staples.
This was one of those times. Amidst all of these calamities and woes, I found that I was thankful for being born and growing up when I did. The 1970s and ‘80s saw their own share of troubles, and we lived through them just fine. I know we will make it through these. But something more tangible and sweeter came out of this dim epiphany. For me, it was more important.
Still listening to the Cosmos Theme by Vangelis and blissfully tripping through my dusty synapses of memories, I realized that some of my teachers were none other than Carl Sagan. Along with the late Dr. Sagan was the indomitable Jacques Cousteau. It was because of Cousteau that I took French as my foreign language in high school. I believe that to be successful on PBS I had to wear a read beanie cap and speak with a French accent. Perhaps, this was part of the reason I was also a swimmer in high school. Many others made the list, such as Mr. Rogers, Jim Henson, and Jane Goodall. While this is not necessarily a complete list, it did show me something or two about being thankful. Thankful for having these individuals share their experiences and wonder with me, even if it was through a television set. Thankful for their inspiration and excitement that led me to living a life of the mind, even if I am a middle school teacher. Thankful, that even in the dark days of the Cold War and the Energy Crisis, they showed me that there was still so much to hope for a dream for…Thank you…
I don’t have to tell anyone about the anxiety gripping the nation. It’s as if the Grinch came early and came hard. And I don’t have any pat answers or solutions to the problems we are wrestling with. I always remember what I was once told when I found myself in a state of seemingly unending existential dread and anxiety. Basically the maxim goes that you can cry in your cornflakes, but it only will make them soggier. With this in mind, I did what most red-blooded Americans do. I jumped on the internet.
Nostalgia quickly set in. I have been assured this is a terminal issue, especially with history teachers. I wanted to listen to music. Something soothing. Something with soul. Something with a message of hope. I had recently changed my setting on my Gmail account to one with backgrounds of outer space. This tripped the memory fantastic.
As the seasons have changed, my mood has moved with the stars. Saturn and Venus are about to align in their interstellar dance. I joked with my wife on night on our regular constitutionals around the block with our dog, that this was our dance playing out among the heavens. After sixteen years of connubial bliss, no questions were asked about which plant was who in the duet. This got me thinking about Vangelis.
Odd, I know. Things seem to work out this way. But I remember watching Cosmos on PBS, thinking that Carl Sagan was related to our nerdy, Northern neighbor across the street and loving the music. Of course, thanks to the miracle of modern technology, the track was available online for my listening pleasure. And listen I did.
Not only did I listen to that particular track, but many others that evening. It was a beautiful stroll down memory lane, literally. It was blissful and relaxing. I am sure that there is some sort of psychological and/or physiological, and possibly theological, aspect and explanation of this particular phenomenal experience. However, I don’t want to know and do not particularly care for an explanation. I am happy as is.
And that’s when it hit. I was happy. It was wonderful. Looking around, seeing the mess we are currently in, I was still smiling. Why? Because I found some things to be grateful and thankful for. Of course, I am always thankful for my family, my country, and most of all for my Savior. But time and again, little things pop up that add to these staples.
This was one of those times. Amidst all of these calamities and woes, I found that I was thankful for being born and growing up when I did. The 1970s and ‘80s saw their own share of troubles, and we lived through them just fine. I know we will make it through these. But something more tangible and sweeter came out of this dim epiphany. For me, it was more important.
Still listening to the Cosmos Theme by Vangelis and blissfully tripping through my dusty synapses of memories, I realized that some of my teachers were none other than Carl Sagan. Along with the late Dr. Sagan was the indomitable Jacques Cousteau. It was because of Cousteau that I took French as my foreign language in high school. I believe that to be successful on PBS I had to wear a read beanie cap and speak with a French accent. Perhaps, this was part of the reason I was also a swimmer in high school. Many others made the list, such as Mr. Rogers, Jim Henson, and Jane Goodall. While this is not necessarily a complete list, it did show me something or two about being thankful. Thankful for having these individuals share their experiences and wonder with me, even if it was through a television set. Thankful for their inspiration and excitement that led me to living a life of the mind, even if I am a middle school teacher. Thankful, that even in the dark days of the Cold War and the Energy Crisis, they showed me that there was still so much to hope for a dream for…Thank you…
Sunday, August 03, 2008
.38 Special
This past school year has been interesting to say the least. After speaking with a few of the veteran experts, I have come to find out that it is actually quite normal. That is, what occurred and my reaction to it. Oddly enough, it coincided with my discovery actually it was my rediscovery of some of my old albums from my teen age years. But, before too much explanation can occur, the scene must be set…
Coming off of a pretty spectacular year that marked my return to public education after a hiatus in Catholic schools…much needed by the way, the sophomore venture did not bode as well. While I literally got to hand pick my schedule…to some extent…It seemed as if the stars were not in alignment or something. Regardless of the reason, it was a horrible year. It was bad enough, that I seriously contemplating r-entering military service. Yes, mustering back into the Army with a full fledged war raging the Middle East. Yep…That’s just how good of a year it was. My principal didn’t help much either.
Anyway, combing through my lost ‘80s albums and blowing dust off of the likes of Bruce Springsteen and Lynrd Skynrd, a little ray of light broke through the clouds. Of course, none of this would have been possible without the technical expertise of my friend and co-worker who just so happened to be the school’s orchestra director. Are you sensing what the next “aha” will be, dear reader? It is indeed true…The possession of a turntable in his classroom added to the adolescent giddiness of listening to these albums. However, undertaking an adventure such as this must be done with the utmost safety. A rigorous schedule was debated upon, set in place, and strictly adhered to during our daily lunch together.
Throughout his years as an orchestra director, my friend had purchased numerous classical albums to share with his students. It makes sense. I, while holding a liberal arts degree from my undergraduate days, was woefully undereducated in a musical sense. Since I like to incorporate as much of the arts into my history classes, my friend agreed to tutor me during our lunches. Of course, the details were left to the sides and most tutorials were in the form of informal conversations over warmed up leftovers while listening to a particular classical masterpiece. Suited me just fine.
Yet, classical was not to be the weekly mainstay for long. Music has always served as some sort of metaphysical balm for me. It just has. Whether it defies explanation for not, I don’t know and really do not care to know. I think too much analysis just might spoil some of the mystery and in the end most of the enjoyment. I was pleased to find out that my friend was a jazz fan. It came about rather serendipitously as he was burning copies of practice discs for the students. He had some Dixie Land and rag time jazz lounging under one of the many piles leaning on his desks.
Soon, Hayden and Bach made way for the Dukes of Dixie Land, Jelly Roll Morton and Scott Joplin. I found, rather bluntly, that tastes in jazz run about as circuitous and random as those in most other musical genres. Imagine my surprise when my friend went on a tirade about Miles Davis and John Coltrane as we were discussing our appreciation of jazz. This brought the discussion to an interesting halt as my next remark was to offer to bring some of my Coltrane and Davis to listen to the next day during lunch. Luckily, my mind caught my mouth, truly a miracle in my experience, and I did not make the offer. Therefore, it did not have to be embarrassingly withdrawn.
Needless to say, our classical consumption varied from week to week and even day to day, especially after Spring Break and the TAKS test. Ugh! Where does the ‘80s southern rock group fit into the picture I am sure you are asking. The answer is simple and direct…Fridays. No, not the chain restaurant rather the day of the week. Fridays were our ‘80s rock days. Of course, we did have a few refugees from the late ‘70s, but there really didn’t need to be a strict entrance policy as far as we were concerned. The only qualifications were round, vinyl and playable. The rest was up to pure chance as to whether the album would be played in its entirety or quickly shuffled off and deftly replaced by another. I suppose it was something akin to our own version of the “Gong Show.”
The Friday that I place the .38 Special album “Tour De Force” and set the needle to it, everything stopped. My blood pressure dropped and I think I smiled at work for the first time in months. It was sheer bliss. Of course the music was, and will always be awesome, but to add the pops and light scratches in the background that it the trademark of all albums was pure rapture. Of course, my friend loved the music as well. Being younger, it was a band that he was not quite as familiar with. It was now my turn to educate him. Ah, yes…the wonders of Southern rock in all of its manifestations. I can almost smell the magnolias with the moss hanging from their boughs. Well…enough of that, for now.
The album would be a mainstay of our Friday repertoire. Perhaps it was the following incident that made this group and their wonderful album suspect with our principal. After first introducing my friend to this newfound wonder from the ‘80s, only getting to listen to one side completely, the bell that ended lunch rang. Entering the crowded hallway amongst the students and teachers, my friend remarked at how he liked the album and wanted me to bring it back next week. I let out a laugh and remarked that sometimes all you need is a .38 Special. Little did I know that the principal was in ear-shot. I quickly assured her that no actual firearms were used during lunch. In fact, I was glad I had the album in hand to prove my innocence. However, this did not squelch the playing of .38 Special or any other ‘80s music during lunch. By the time the school year was winding down, our lunches were mainly filled with Dixie Land jazz and album rock. Oh, well…so much for education in the classical sense. Oddly enough, we did hit a few of the state standards in music education for those students who were lucky enough to be in the room during lunch with our albums spinning. I doubt seriously, however, any DJ gigs will be coming our way. It better…most parties go past my bedtime anyway.
Coming off of a pretty spectacular year that marked my return to public education after a hiatus in Catholic schools…much needed by the way, the sophomore venture did not bode as well. While I literally got to hand pick my schedule…to some extent…It seemed as if the stars were not in alignment or something. Regardless of the reason, it was a horrible year. It was bad enough, that I seriously contemplating r-entering military service. Yes, mustering back into the Army with a full fledged war raging the Middle East. Yep…That’s just how good of a year it was. My principal didn’t help much either.
Anyway, combing through my lost ‘80s albums and blowing dust off of the likes of Bruce Springsteen and Lynrd Skynrd, a little ray of light broke through the clouds. Of course, none of this would have been possible without the technical expertise of my friend and co-worker who just so happened to be the school’s orchestra director. Are you sensing what the next “aha” will be, dear reader? It is indeed true…The possession of a turntable in his classroom added to the adolescent giddiness of listening to these albums. However, undertaking an adventure such as this must be done with the utmost safety. A rigorous schedule was debated upon, set in place, and strictly adhered to during our daily lunch together.
Throughout his years as an orchestra director, my friend had purchased numerous classical albums to share with his students. It makes sense. I, while holding a liberal arts degree from my undergraduate days, was woefully undereducated in a musical sense. Since I like to incorporate as much of the arts into my history classes, my friend agreed to tutor me during our lunches. Of course, the details were left to the sides and most tutorials were in the form of informal conversations over warmed up leftovers while listening to a particular classical masterpiece. Suited me just fine.
Yet, classical was not to be the weekly mainstay for long. Music has always served as some sort of metaphysical balm for me. It just has. Whether it defies explanation for not, I don’t know and really do not care to know. I think too much analysis just might spoil some of the mystery and in the end most of the enjoyment. I was pleased to find out that my friend was a jazz fan. It came about rather serendipitously as he was burning copies of practice discs for the students. He had some Dixie Land and rag time jazz lounging under one of the many piles leaning on his desks.
Soon, Hayden and Bach made way for the Dukes of Dixie Land, Jelly Roll Morton and Scott Joplin. I found, rather bluntly, that tastes in jazz run about as circuitous and random as those in most other musical genres. Imagine my surprise when my friend went on a tirade about Miles Davis and John Coltrane as we were discussing our appreciation of jazz. This brought the discussion to an interesting halt as my next remark was to offer to bring some of my Coltrane and Davis to listen to the next day during lunch. Luckily, my mind caught my mouth, truly a miracle in my experience, and I did not make the offer. Therefore, it did not have to be embarrassingly withdrawn.
Needless to say, our classical consumption varied from week to week and even day to day, especially after Spring Break and the TAKS test. Ugh! Where does the ‘80s southern rock group fit into the picture I am sure you are asking. The answer is simple and direct…Fridays. No, not the chain restaurant rather the day of the week. Fridays were our ‘80s rock days. Of course, we did have a few refugees from the late ‘70s, but there really didn’t need to be a strict entrance policy as far as we were concerned. The only qualifications were round, vinyl and playable. The rest was up to pure chance as to whether the album would be played in its entirety or quickly shuffled off and deftly replaced by another. I suppose it was something akin to our own version of the “Gong Show.”
The Friday that I place the .38 Special album “Tour De Force” and set the needle to it, everything stopped. My blood pressure dropped and I think I smiled at work for the first time in months. It was sheer bliss. Of course the music was, and will always be awesome, but to add the pops and light scratches in the background that it the trademark of all albums was pure rapture. Of course, my friend loved the music as well. Being younger, it was a band that he was not quite as familiar with. It was now my turn to educate him. Ah, yes…the wonders of Southern rock in all of its manifestations. I can almost smell the magnolias with the moss hanging from their boughs. Well…enough of that, for now.
The album would be a mainstay of our Friday repertoire. Perhaps it was the following incident that made this group and their wonderful album suspect with our principal. After first introducing my friend to this newfound wonder from the ‘80s, only getting to listen to one side completely, the bell that ended lunch rang. Entering the crowded hallway amongst the students and teachers, my friend remarked at how he liked the album and wanted me to bring it back next week. I let out a laugh and remarked that sometimes all you need is a .38 Special. Little did I know that the principal was in ear-shot. I quickly assured her that no actual firearms were used during lunch. In fact, I was glad I had the album in hand to prove my innocence. However, this did not squelch the playing of .38 Special or any other ‘80s music during lunch. By the time the school year was winding down, our lunches were mainly filled with Dixie Land jazz and album rock. Oh, well…so much for education in the classical sense. Oddly enough, we did hit a few of the state standards in music education for those students who were lucky enough to be in the room during lunch with our albums spinning. I doubt seriously, however, any DJ gigs will be coming our way. It better…most parties go past my bedtime anyway.
Friday, August 01, 2008
Santa Fe Sojourn
Three days I have been here in the foothills of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. Three days in the land of enchantment, according to the state issued license plates. Three mornings filled with crisp air hikes surrounded by high desert majesty. Three evenings painted by thunder, lightening and glorious rain. For a Texan, this is truly a blessing in mid-July. However, today has been a little different.
This afternoon, the planned expedition was to Santa Fe, the capitol since the 1600s of this wonderful place. I was anxious and excited all during the bus ride. I tried to fool myself with reading a book about Kit Carson and his hand in making New Mexico and the region what it is today. Yet, before these unfounded and unnamable apprehensions could seriously take hold of me, we arrived right off of the old town plaza. The bus pulled in across the street from St. Francis Cathedral and we were all admonished about the seven o’clock departure time with stories of people left behind and the expensive cab fare to return to Montezuma.
The big blue desert sky and streets lined with adobe walls made me as giddy as a kid a Christmas. I suppose in an off-hand sort of way, it was. And the present…and entire afternoon free. Free to roam. Free to photograph. Free to mingle. And to some extent, free to spend. I have always believes, since my first visit to the desert that it is something akin to a spiritual home for me. Luckily, my wife feels the same way. Only the exact latitude differs in our experience.
This last part proved to be something of a sticking point throughout my afternoon sojourn. Caught up in the waves of tourism and commercialism that keeps this town viable, an impending sense of frustration lurked in the cob-webbed corners of my mind. An acidic surge of resentment for a cheapened experience was percolating in the pit of my stomach. How dare something this awesome be degraded for a few bucks. The thoughts fumed exponentially with the growing numbers of other tourists I had to contend with. It was reminiscent of my trip to Disney World. Ugh! Thankfully, with a few deep breaths and some divine redirection, the churning subsided.
Collecting my thoughts at the twilight of this little adventure I couldn’t help but to laugh at myself. This is often the case. Upon further reflection it seems as for the better part of the afternoon my imagination readily outpaced my actual strides through the city. This, however, is not at all uncommon. I am positive that this is some sort of terminal condition. But, I digress.
As I walked through the city streets…isn’t that a line for a song?...of Santa Fe, taking in all of its culture and commerce, my mind ran away with the situation. I began to imagine myself as one of those trendy, haute travel show hosts on cable television. Even more far-fetched, I almost had myself convinced. Luckily I stopped before I launched into a full-fledged monologue. I fooled myself, however, in that I had succeeded in going local. Hah! One look at some of the pictures and I had “tourist” stamped boldly across my forehead. One glance at my reflection in one of numerous shop windows or the shadow I cast upon the sidewalk quickly dispelled that foggy myth. There was no way of getting around the stone cold fact. I might as well embrace it.
But when did this moment of clarity, this mountain top enlightenment, this radical paradigm shift actually occur? Not that precise or otherwise moment in time is vital or necessary. For the sake of discussion, let’s place it at dinner. I enjoyed it immensely. Choosing to dine early out of an ad hoc mixture of cheap tourist boredom and a desire to beat the regular dinner rush, I found the restaurant recommended by one of my classmates…Thank you, Pete! During the course of consuming a monster bowl of fresh green chile stew with fresh tortillas and some local beer, my perspective an attitude seemed to shift…slightly. I can assure you the well-crafted beer had little to do with it due to the 5.5% state law in New Mexico. However, it did complement the stew wonderfully. I am sure, however, that it had more to do with the excellent cooking and the friendly waitress who was a Texas refugee herself. Without too much sappy embarrassment, I was able to lick my homesick wound and move on.
Of course, the actual time could have possibly begun even before dinner. Weaving my way through the throngs of fellow tourists in the labyrinth of shops, and painfully noticeable lack of public restrooms, I made my way serendipitously to a hidden gem. It was a neatly tucked away bookstore. I am a bookman. You finish the equation. However, I was pleased to find out in conversation with the proprietor that I was in the midst of the largest Spanish-language bookstore in North America. Noting some suspicion, he quickly explained what used to be the largest in New York City had to close due to high overhead. To answer the next question…Yes, he also stocked a seemingly commiserate amount of English language titles as well. I walked out with what I considered a local treasure for a title. I like to equate it with the lovely silver a turquoise jewelry I purchased from local artisans. It was due, of course, wholly to the knowledgeable proprietor who matched my desires with his stock. This is the side of retail that is rarely seen and always enjoyed.
Similarly, I repeated the experience in another bookstore well off the tourists’ trodden path. A few blocks down from the bustling square, I literally stumbled into a rare and used bookstore that was nothing more than a partially converted house. Partially, because in the kitchen not only could you find art and architecture books but a small stove, sink and refrigerator to boot. It was another veritable treasure trove igniting such greed that I honestly began questioning the purchase of some beautifully hand-crafted turquoise earrings I bought for my wife…I would never admit it, though… My elation was elevated by the larges selection of regional titles. Added to this was a little soothing balm when in this section the proprietor included books about Texas as well. Broke, I was unable to walk away with any purchases, even though I was assured that all major credit cards were happily accepted. But, I am happy to say that I did not leave empty handed. I did procure a business card and shipping is done for a nominal fee. As you read this, I am already compiling a list of necessary titles.
But it wasn’t just books that left a great impression on me in Santa Fe. Sure, all of the wonderful architecture and artistry were there as well. Hell, even seeing the place where Oppenheimer picked up his mail at 109 Palace East vetted well into my consciousness as much as the cathedral and the two older churches of Loreto and San Miguel. But it was absent-mindedly strolling in to a “fine gentleman’s clothing” shop that also proved prescient. While perusing the offerings, which I can add I could not begin to afford, I struck up a conversation with the salesman. Low key and relaxed, I liked him immediately. We spoke of a myriad of subjects from gangster movies to beer and the Van Morrison song playing on the stereo in the store. It was a pleasant interlude. As I made my way out of the store’s courtyard, the salesman had to unlock the gate. I apologized for keeping him late and not purchasing anything. The relaxed attitude, I found, was genuine to the core. He shook my hand and thanked me for sharing a good watering hole for the next time he visited his cousin in Austin. It may have been retail pretense, but I doubt it.
Afterwards, I settled on the drying park bench comfortable and content. It was then that I came to realize something that was profound…at least for a Wednesday evening. In the dueling strains between the teen-aged mariachi band behind me and the Latin jazz quartet facing me from the other side of the square, I came to realize that I had not really gone local. Rather, the locals, in their own unassuming ways allowed me to respectfully be who I am…a Texan. I felt a little ashamed that I stuck out as much as I did. However, reflecting upon this further during the hour long bus trip back to Montezuma, I came to understand that Santa Fe and its inhabitants have not changed much since its earliest inception with the conquistadors and missionaries. It was a major hub on the Santa Fe trail…duh…but more importantly, it was a major trading post. People from Mexico, the United States and many other territories rolled through this place. I was just a member of the latest band to come through.
This afternoon, the planned expedition was to Santa Fe, the capitol since the 1600s of this wonderful place. I was anxious and excited all during the bus ride. I tried to fool myself with reading a book about Kit Carson and his hand in making New Mexico and the region what it is today. Yet, before these unfounded and unnamable apprehensions could seriously take hold of me, we arrived right off of the old town plaza. The bus pulled in across the street from St. Francis Cathedral and we were all admonished about the seven o’clock departure time with stories of people left behind and the expensive cab fare to return to Montezuma.
The big blue desert sky and streets lined with adobe walls made me as giddy as a kid a Christmas. I suppose in an off-hand sort of way, it was. And the present…and entire afternoon free. Free to roam. Free to photograph. Free to mingle. And to some extent, free to spend. I have always believes, since my first visit to the desert that it is something akin to a spiritual home for me. Luckily, my wife feels the same way. Only the exact latitude differs in our experience.
This last part proved to be something of a sticking point throughout my afternoon sojourn. Caught up in the waves of tourism and commercialism that keeps this town viable, an impending sense of frustration lurked in the cob-webbed corners of my mind. An acidic surge of resentment for a cheapened experience was percolating in the pit of my stomach. How dare something this awesome be degraded for a few bucks. The thoughts fumed exponentially with the growing numbers of other tourists I had to contend with. It was reminiscent of my trip to Disney World. Ugh! Thankfully, with a few deep breaths and some divine redirection, the churning subsided.
Collecting my thoughts at the twilight of this little adventure I couldn’t help but to laugh at myself. This is often the case. Upon further reflection it seems as for the better part of the afternoon my imagination readily outpaced my actual strides through the city. This, however, is not at all uncommon. I am positive that this is some sort of terminal condition. But, I digress.
As I walked through the city streets…isn’t that a line for a song?...of Santa Fe, taking in all of its culture and commerce, my mind ran away with the situation. I began to imagine myself as one of those trendy, haute travel show hosts on cable television. Even more far-fetched, I almost had myself convinced. Luckily I stopped before I launched into a full-fledged monologue. I fooled myself, however, in that I had succeeded in going local. Hah! One look at some of the pictures and I had “tourist” stamped boldly across my forehead. One glance at my reflection in one of numerous shop windows or the shadow I cast upon the sidewalk quickly dispelled that foggy myth. There was no way of getting around the stone cold fact. I might as well embrace it.
But when did this moment of clarity, this mountain top enlightenment, this radical paradigm shift actually occur? Not that precise or otherwise moment in time is vital or necessary. For the sake of discussion, let’s place it at dinner. I enjoyed it immensely. Choosing to dine early out of an ad hoc mixture of cheap tourist boredom and a desire to beat the regular dinner rush, I found the restaurant recommended by one of my classmates…Thank you, Pete! During the course of consuming a monster bowl of fresh green chile stew with fresh tortillas and some local beer, my perspective an attitude seemed to shift…slightly. I can assure you the well-crafted beer had little to do with it due to the 5.5% state law in New Mexico. However, it did complement the stew wonderfully. I am sure, however, that it had more to do with the excellent cooking and the friendly waitress who was a Texas refugee herself. Without too much sappy embarrassment, I was able to lick my homesick wound and move on.
Of course, the actual time could have possibly begun even before dinner. Weaving my way through the throngs of fellow tourists in the labyrinth of shops, and painfully noticeable lack of public restrooms, I made my way serendipitously to a hidden gem. It was a neatly tucked away bookstore. I am a bookman. You finish the equation. However, I was pleased to find out in conversation with the proprietor that I was in the midst of the largest Spanish-language bookstore in North America. Noting some suspicion, he quickly explained what used to be the largest in New York City had to close due to high overhead. To answer the next question…Yes, he also stocked a seemingly commiserate amount of English language titles as well. I walked out with what I considered a local treasure for a title. I like to equate it with the lovely silver a turquoise jewelry I purchased from local artisans. It was due, of course, wholly to the knowledgeable proprietor who matched my desires with his stock. This is the side of retail that is rarely seen and always enjoyed.
Similarly, I repeated the experience in another bookstore well off the tourists’ trodden path. A few blocks down from the bustling square, I literally stumbled into a rare and used bookstore that was nothing more than a partially converted house. Partially, because in the kitchen not only could you find art and architecture books but a small stove, sink and refrigerator to boot. It was another veritable treasure trove igniting such greed that I honestly began questioning the purchase of some beautifully hand-crafted turquoise earrings I bought for my wife…I would never admit it, though… My elation was elevated by the larges selection of regional titles. Added to this was a little soothing balm when in this section the proprietor included books about Texas as well. Broke, I was unable to walk away with any purchases, even though I was assured that all major credit cards were happily accepted. But, I am happy to say that I did not leave empty handed. I did procure a business card and shipping is done for a nominal fee. As you read this, I am already compiling a list of necessary titles.
But it wasn’t just books that left a great impression on me in Santa Fe. Sure, all of the wonderful architecture and artistry were there as well. Hell, even seeing the place where Oppenheimer picked up his mail at 109 Palace East vetted well into my consciousness as much as the cathedral and the two older churches of Loreto and San Miguel. But it was absent-mindedly strolling in to a “fine gentleman’s clothing” shop that also proved prescient. While perusing the offerings, which I can add I could not begin to afford, I struck up a conversation with the salesman. Low key and relaxed, I liked him immediately. We spoke of a myriad of subjects from gangster movies to beer and the Van Morrison song playing on the stereo in the store. It was a pleasant interlude. As I made my way out of the store’s courtyard, the salesman had to unlock the gate. I apologized for keeping him late and not purchasing anything. The relaxed attitude, I found, was genuine to the core. He shook my hand and thanked me for sharing a good watering hole for the next time he visited his cousin in Austin. It may have been retail pretense, but I doubt it.
Afterwards, I settled on the drying park bench comfortable and content. It was then that I came to realize something that was profound…at least for a Wednesday evening. In the dueling strains between the teen-aged mariachi band behind me and the Latin jazz quartet facing me from the other side of the square, I came to realize that I had not really gone local. Rather, the locals, in their own unassuming ways allowed me to respectfully be who I am…a Texan. I felt a little ashamed that I stuck out as much as I did. However, reflecting upon this further during the hour long bus trip back to Montezuma, I came to understand that Santa Fe and its inhabitants have not changed much since its earliest inception with the conquistadors and missionaries. It was a major hub on the Santa Fe trail…duh…but more importantly, it was a major trading post. People from Mexico, the United States and many other territories rolled through this place. I was just a member of the latest band to come through.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Graph Paper
Being a teacher allows for a unique perspective in retrospect. It allows for some questions to be answered and the ability to continue learning about yourself and the world at large. This is one such incident.
Not too terribly long ago I came into possession of a spiral filled with graph paper. I am sure it is not an unfamiliar aspect of education. Quadrille lined in a light blue ink, three-hole punched, and wire bound in all of its mysterious beauty. Graph paper is absolutely transfixing. Perhaps it is just me, being a teacher and all. I must admit to being a little fixated with office supplies. Besides a bookstore, an office supply store is my favorite place to browse and shop. So it comes as no surprise that this abandoned spiral of pristine graph paper caught my eye, lying there in the deserted hall after a school day. It was too much to pass up.
I snatched it from the once magnificent linoleum floor. It was mine. A simple act brought about a little joy at the end of a tiring day of teaching. It was a proverbial breath of fresh air, putting a little lilt in my step that afternoon. For just a little while, there was a bit more certainty and clarity in my world. Reflecting upon the situation, I cannot explain or define the reason, and I do not want to. It was just enough to experience the feeling.
Of course, the adventure did not end there. A larger question loomed over the horizon. Lurking in the corners and shadows where we must look if we are to truly experience life. My revelry was curbed with the gnawing question of what to do with this newly found treasure. What was I to do with it? Perhaps it is my blue collar blood that everything needs to have a purpose. It is more than just existence. One must have a calling or job to do in this life. The same sentiment fell upon inanimate objects such as this orphaned spiral.
At the time, I was taking some graduate courses. It was inevitable that the thought of using this spiral as my notebook for these courses would come about. It just seemed right, at the time. And it was. It served my educational purposes well…at least until the end of the semester. Of course, the spiral did not even make to being partially, or even half filled with notes, outlines, and rough drafts of responses. Technology is to blame. I have learned the craft of composing on a computer.
However, I still hold strong to pen and paper writing...
Lately, I have tried to pick the spiral back up and utilize it as a sort of journal. Its pedestrian appearance makes it ideal for composing at staff meetings and grade-level conferences. I like to think of it as a form of professional camouflage. It works quite nice, especially in the educational world. More on that another time.
A little history…Like most kids, graph paper beguiled me. It was the utmost enchanting thing to write on once college ruled notebook paper lost in brilliance. There was just something mysterious and enticing about all of those precisely measured out lines. They were begging to be written on, traced over, and asking to hold answers to mathematical problems and scientific inquiries. It was manly to be seen writing on graph paper. Even if it was pulpy science fiction and sappy poetry, at least it was on graph paper. Growing up in the oil fields of East Texas during the ‘80s, this was the parchment of possibility. Engineering was on the minds and mouths of most young boys who were not stellar athletes or stoners.
I suppose I am a victim of my own Romanticism. I cannot look upon a piece of graph paper without it igniting a sense of urgent possibility. A subconscious command to seize it and write comes over me. I suppose there are worse inclinations to be afflicted with. Excavating this particular spiral from one of my desk drawers, I was once again filled with the same expectations that I had when I first picked it up in the hallway of my school.
Fluttering past the pages of notes and rough draft, I quickly came to the first available blank page. And I stared at it. I could think of nothing to write…nothing! At first I thought is was a simple case of writer’s block, a constipated imagination. I was wrong. Something had happened. At first, I didn’t know what it was. While this does not sound overly disconcerting, it was.
Think of a cook or chef looking at fresh produce and meat without being able to conjure up a recipe much less a meal. Or, picture a lifelong fisherman picking up a favorite rod and reel and not get any type of longing for the lake. This was the dilemma I was right in the midst of. It was horrible. Nothing came, and it was debilitatingly painful.
I didn’t know what to do. What happened was a knee-jerk reaction. I quickly closed the spiral and stared at its faded yellow cover in shock. “How could this happen,” I thought. Not that I am immune to writer’s block, but this was something more. It was the paper itself.
The perfectly measured and printed blue, quadrille lined pages were mocking me. I could not write anything upon them. They were just too confining. It was like I could not breathe, much less create. Perhaps this was some sort of existential anxiety attack. I don’t know. Nonetheless, I quickly closed and reshelved the spiral in my office bookcase where it currently resides.
Now, I am not totally sure, but sometimes I feel as if the spiral of graph paper is lodged comfortably in my bookcase fiendishly mocking me. Almost like a nagging failure palpitating like the haunting heart in the short story by Poe. I have asked my family and they have only ended up questioning my sanity or lack thereof. But I swear I can feel it staring at me sometimes, especially when I am at the computer trying to compose a piece of writing…any writing…and laughing.
Needless to say, the spiral still holds a place on my bookshelves. And perhaps one day I will venture into its pages again with more wisdom and confidence that when I originally pulled open its covers. Then again, maybe I won’t. This incident may be one of those mile markers upon the road of life that announces when you have reached a certain stage in life.
Having grown a little older, and hopefully a little wiser, the spiral may not hold as much significance in the future. Perhaps it is something akin to fist fighting. At least for my generation, before the rampant litigation, it was a regular past time for young males. It was a way of defending your honor, friends, and family name, or just proving you had the moxie and wherewithal to brag and swagger just a little. At some point in most men’s lives you outgrow this endeavor. The urge and possibly the ability to fight have been channeled, thankfully, into other activities. Pretty soon, you just don’t care. Some day the need to compose in a graph paper spiral may do the same…just fade away.
Not too terribly long ago I came into possession of a spiral filled with graph paper. I am sure it is not an unfamiliar aspect of education. Quadrille lined in a light blue ink, three-hole punched, and wire bound in all of its mysterious beauty. Graph paper is absolutely transfixing. Perhaps it is just me, being a teacher and all. I must admit to being a little fixated with office supplies. Besides a bookstore, an office supply store is my favorite place to browse and shop. So it comes as no surprise that this abandoned spiral of pristine graph paper caught my eye, lying there in the deserted hall after a school day. It was too much to pass up.
I snatched it from the once magnificent linoleum floor. It was mine. A simple act brought about a little joy at the end of a tiring day of teaching. It was a proverbial breath of fresh air, putting a little lilt in my step that afternoon. For just a little while, there was a bit more certainty and clarity in my world. Reflecting upon the situation, I cannot explain or define the reason, and I do not want to. It was just enough to experience the feeling.
Of course, the adventure did not end there. A larger question loomed over the horizon. Lurking in the corners and shadows where we must look if we are to truly experience life. My revelry was curbed with the gnawing question of what to do with this newly found treasure. What was I to do with it? Perhaps it is my blue collar blood that everything needs to have a purpose. It is more than just existence. One must have a calling or job to do in this life. The same sentiment fell upon inanimate objects such as this orphaned spiral.
At the time, I was taking some graduate courses. It was inevitable that the thought of using this spiral as my notebook for these courses would come about. It just seemed right, at the time. And it was. It served my educational purposes well…at least until the end of the semester. Of course, the spiral did not even make to being partially, or even half filled with notes, outlines, and rough drafts of responses. Technology is to blame. I have learned the craft of composing on a computer.
However, I still hold strong to pen and paper writing...
Lately, I have tried to pick the spiral back up and utilize it as a sort of journal. Its pedestrian appearance makes it ideal for composing at staff meetings and grade-level conferences. I like to think of it as a form of professional camouflage. It works quite nice, especially in the educational world. More on that another time.
A little history…Like most kids, graph paper beguiled me. It was the utmost enchanting thing to write on once college ruled notebook paper lost in brilliance. There was just something mysterious and enticing about all of those precisely measured out lines. They were begging to be written on, traced over, and asking to hold answers to mathematical problems and scientific inquiries. It was manly to be seen writing on graph paper. Even if it was pulpy science fiction and sappy poetry, at least it was on graph paper. Growing up in the oil fields of East Texas during the ‘80s, this was the parchment of possibility. Engineering was on the minds and mouths of most young boys who were not stellar athletes or stoners.
I suppose I am a victim of my own Romanticism. I cannot look upon a piece of graph paper without it igniting a sense of urgent possibility. A subconscious command to seize it and write comes over me. I suppose there are worse inclinations to be afflicted with. Excavating this particular spiral from one of my desk drawers, I was once again filled with the same expectations that I had when I first picked it up in the hallway of my school.
Fluttering past the pages of notes and rough draft, I quickly came to the first available blank page. And I stared at it. I could think of nothing to write…nothing! At first I thought is was a simple case of writer’s block, a constipated imagination. I was wrong. Something had happened. At first, I didn’t know what it was. While this does not sound overly disconcerting, it was.
Think of a cook or chef looking at fresh produce and meat without being able to conjure up a recipe much less a meal. Or, picture a lifelong fisherman picking up a favorite rod and reel and not get any type of longing for the lake. This was the dilemma I was right in the midst of. It was horrible. Nothing came, and it was debilitatingly painful.
I didn’t know what to do. What happened was a knee-jerk reaction. I quickly closed the spiral and stared at its faded yellow cover in shock. “How could this happen,” I thought. Not that I am immune to writer’s block, but this was something more. It was the paper itself.
The perfectly measured and printed blue, quadrille lined pages were mocking me. I could not write anything upon them. They were just too confining. It was like I could not breathe, much less create. Perhaps this was some sort of existential anxiety attack. I don’t know. Nonetheless, I quickly closed and reshelved the spiral in my office bookcase where it currently resides.
Now, I am not totally sure, but sometimes I feel as if the spiral of graph paper is lodged comfortably in my bookcase fiendishly mocking me. Almost like a nagging failure palpitating like the haunting heart in the short story by Poe. I have asked my family and they have only ended up questioning my sanity or lack thereof. But I swear I can feel it staring at me sometimes, especially when I am at the computer trying to compose a piece of writing…any writing…and laughing.
Needless to say, the spiral still holds a place on my bookshelves. And perhaps one day I will venture into its pages again with more wisdom and confidence that when I originally pulled open its covers. Then again, maybe I won’t. This incident may be one of those mile markers upon the road of life that announces when you have reached a certain stage in life.
Having grown a little older, and hopefully a little wiser, the spiral may not hold as much significance in the future. Perhaps it is something akin to fist fighting. At least for my generation, before the rampant litigation, it was a regular past time for young males. It was a way of defending your honor, friends, and family name, or just proving you had the moxie and wherewithal to brag and swagger just a little. At some point in most men’s lives you outgrow this endeavor. The urge and possibly the ability to fight have been channeled, thankfully, into other activities. Pretty soon, you just don’t care. Some day the need to compose in a graph paper spiral may do the same…just fade away.
Sunday, March 02, 2008
Saturday and the Shed
Saturday’s in suburbia are mostly the same. It is chore day that is barring any soccer games or tee times. The only difference from house to house, subdivision to subdivision, city to city, is the addresses and house styles. Actually the chores are all alarmingly similar. Inevitably, the almost always include some form of yard work or home improvement. It is the unwritten rule that housing appearance must be kept up. Of course, in this day and age of lawn and landscaping services and home improvement specialists, most of this work is effectively outsourced. I blame my own generation. Supposedly we are too busy to get all of these chores done. I can’t argue with that. I suppose the teachings of my father are just too well ingrained within me.
Using a lawn/landscaping service or hiring a handyman for simple projects is nothing short of pure emasculation. That is the way I see it. Perhaps this harkens back to some mid-century mentality. I like to think of it as home ownership. Not to sound too dowdy, but that includes responsibility. Anyway, it was fun to be working outside this weekend.
Since we bought out house a little over two years ago, a rusting hulk of a metal outbuilding or shed has been squatting in the far corner of our backyard. You couldn’t escape it. It was like this monolithic beast sitting in silent protest over something that has been long forgotten. Needless to say it has been a point of contention, both internally and externally since we moved it. In fact, we had to sign an official addendum to our mortgage stating that we understood the shed sat right in a utility easement. Great! It had to come down. That was one of my first statements as soon as we signed the papers for the house.
Well, I finally got around to dismantling it. I started during the week. I did manage to remove an entire side. It was the north facing side of the shed. By this time in Texas, there is scant wind out of the north to worry over. It is the first of March and we are already moving about in shorts and t-shirts. The largest population of migratory fowl is the Snow Bird from the north. Regardless, it was excellent weather and I was under orders from the boss.
You may wonder why I stopped with just one side. It was soon after removing it that I discovered that the shed had not formal framing. To remove any more before the roof would be insane. It would have been a literal house of cards. The site was prepped and ready for the remainder of the demolition. I love that word…sometimes.
It goes without saying that my primary concern was the materials. I didn’t want to get sliced up by the rusting aluminum and get yet another tetanus shot. For awhile I think I averaged about one a year. There are some high points to health insurance. Shot records on file are always a good thing. But, I digress…I attacked the upper perimeter where the walls attached to the roof. Walking back into the shed I could not precisely tell if the roof was anchored by any other bolts or screws. I reached up with one hand to test the resistance and the whole roof, I mean in a single piece, came down on top of my head. Luckily I had already finished my last cup of coffee so there were no burns to worry about this time. I quickly reached up with my other hand and grabbed the center beam and balanced the roof. What to do next became the dominating existential dilemma of the morning.
With a muffled grunt, I shoved the roof to one side, what I thought would be the weakest side since the sliding doors were there. It also helped that I had more yard space on that side. Needless to say I heaved the roof to that side and one of the walls pancaked under the weight. I had effectively completed half of my work in one deft move. This thought relieved some the pain I was currently experiencing in my head.
While this thought of near completion assuaged the throbbing in my head, it was far from being wholly true. As you could well guess, or perhaps not, the years of exposure to the elements created tight bonds on many of the joints, bolts, and screws. Needless to say, even the most advanced tools and high-tech equipment would be of little use in dismantling the shed.
But there’s the catch. I was looking at the task from the wrong perspective. This was not a process of dismantling a shed, but rather demolishing it. Already, a few days before, I could not completely disassemble the wall of the shed. I had to detach it from the rest of the structure and fold it up like a piece of paper. This would have to be the procedure followed for the remainder of the day. None of the pieces were able to be broken down any further than either a side or a roof in toto.
As I continued to demolish the rusting shed with expediency, a feeling of completeness began to well up in me. I could see progress. It was definitive and concrete. In my profession, this is not an everyday occurrence. Teaching tests and tries any patience a person may have, especially anyone who is results driven. Regardless, I sense of well-being was the side dish to the joy or physical labor on a sunny afternoon.
Once I got the roof folded and drug to the side of the house, I leapt upon the remaining sides. I made quick work of these three. After wrestling an aluminum roof of a 10 x 12 shed into the side of a kayak, anything…well, almost anything…seems possible. With the three walls taken down and folded into their respective rectangles of rust, I hit my next big snag. It was the flooring.
The rotted ¾” plywood should have come up easily. It did. The trouble was getting a good finger hold on a corner to pull up on. The answer to the dilemma lay in a rusty screw that I found lying near what was the front of the shed before I got my hands on it. Rooting around for a loose spot I could not believe how tight the boards were attached given their particular state of decay. However, I found an obliging corner and ripped away. I found that once you were able to get one corner up, the remainder of the floor board gave way easily. It was a trick. I had seen behind the curtain and now knew the truth. These boards were rotted and insect-eaten through and through.
After pulling the boards up, I discovered a little treasure of sorts. It was a mouse nest, neatly tucked underneath the floor boards. It was ingeniously constructed and well maintained. I was impressed. For a brief moment, I wondered who was really out of place here. But it soon passed. I was not going to get fined by the utility company for some bonehead’s mis-measurement. I called out daughter out and had her take some pictures of the little den, replete with half eaten pecans, and an escape tunnel. Perhaps it might score her a few bonus points with her science teacher at school.
Needless to say, the flooring frame came up easily and folded even easier. By mid-afternoon I was done. The only thing missing was a cold beer. However, my wife respected my laments and brought back a six pack of cold Mexican beer that is a blessing in Texas, especially on warm afternoons.
So, as we tumble through the twenty first century bemoaning the fact that sprawl and suburbia are ruining the face and character of your wonderful nation remember there is something we can do about it. No, we cannot single-handedly halt the progression of sprawl, at least not physically. However, if we are willing to learn to use some tools and suffer a little cutting, bruising, and humiliation from time to time, we can slow the progress of sprawl within us. We can wrestle with the weeds in our lawns and joust falling fences. In doing so, not only do we get a chance to reclaim a little of our identity, but also to show what we’ve accomplished with a day’s worth of work.
Using a lawn/landscaping service or hiring a handyman for simple projects is nothing short of pure emasculation. That is the way I see it. Perhaps this harkens back to some mid-century mentality. I like to think of it as home ownership. Not to sound too dowdy, but that includes responsibility. Anyway, it was fun to be working outside this weekend.
Since we bought out house a little over two years ago, a rusting hulk of a metal outbuilding or shed has been squatting in the far corner of our backyard. You couldn’t escape it. It was like this monolithic beast sitting in silent protest over something that has been long forgotten. Needless to say it has been a point of contention, both internally and externally since we moved it. In fact, we had to sign an official addendum to our mortgage stating that we understood the shed sat right in a utility easement. Great! It had to come down. That was one of my first statements as soon as we signed the papers for the house.
Well, I finally got around to dismantling it. I started during the week. I did manage to remove an entire side. It was the north facing side of the shed. By this time in Texas, there is scant wind out of the north to worry over. It is the first of March and we are already moving about in shorts and t-shirts. The largest population of migratory fowl is the Snow Bird from the north. Regardless, it was excellent weather and I was under orders from the boss.
You may wonder why I stopped with just one side. It was soon after removing it that I discovered that the shed had not formal framing. To remove any more before the roof would be insane. It would have been a literal house of cards. The site was prepped and ready for the remainder of the demolition. I love that word…sometimes.
It goes without saying that my primary concern was the materials. I didn’t want to get sliced up by the rusting aluminum and get yet another tetanus shot. For awhile I think I averaged about one a year. There are some high points to health insurance. Shot records on file are always a good thing. But, I digress…I attacked the upper perimeter where the walls attached to the roof. Walking back into the shed I could not precisely tell if the roof was anchored by any other bolts or screws. I reached up with one hand to test the resistance and the whole roof, I mean in a single piece, came down on top of my head. Luckily I had already finished my last cup of coffee so there were no burns to worry about this time. I quickly reached up with my other hand and grabbed the center beam and balanced the roof. What to do next became the dominating existential dilemma of the morning.
With a muffled grunt, I shoved the roof to one side, what I thought would be the weakest side since the sliding doors were there. It also helped that I had more yard space on that side. Needless to say I heaved the roof to that side and one of the walls pancaked under the weight. I had effectively completed half of my work in one deft move. This thought relieved some the pain I was currently experiencing in my head.
While this thought of near completion assuaged the throbbing in my head, it was far from being wholly true. As you could well guess, or perhaps not, the years of exposure to the elements created tight bonds on many of the joints, bolts, and screws. Needless to say, even the most advanced tools and high-tech equipment would be of little use in dismantling the shed.
But there’s the catch. I was looking at the task from the wrong perspective. This was not a process of dismantling a shed, but rather demolishing it. Already, a few days before, I could not completely disassemble the wall of the shed. I had to detach it from the rest of the structure and fold it up like a piece of paper. This would have to be the procedure followed for the remainder of the day. None of the pieces were able to be broken down any further than either a side or a roof in toto.
As I continued to demolish the rusting shed with expediency, a feeling of completeness began to well up in me. I could see progress. It was definitive and concrete. In my profession, this is not an everyday occurrence. Teaching tests and tries any patience a person may have, especially anyone who is results driven. Regardless, I sense of well-being was the side dish to the joy or physical labor on a sunny afternoon.
Once I got the roof folded and drug to the side of the house, I leapt upon the remaining sides. I made quick work of these three. After wrestling an aluminum roof of a 10 x 12 shed into the side of a kayak, anything…well, almost anything…seems possible. With the three walls taken down and folded into their respective rectangles of rust, I hit my next big snag. It was the flooring.
The rotted ¾” plywood should have come up easily. It did. The trouble was getting a good finger hold on a corner to pull up on. The answer to the dilemma lay in a rusty screw that I found lying near what was the front of the shed before I got my hands on it. Rooting around for a loose spot I could not believe how tight the boards were attached given their particular state of decay. However, I found an obliging corner and ripped away. I found that once you were able to get one corner up, the remainder of the floor board gave way easily. It was a trick. I had seen behind the curtain and now knew the truth. These boards were rotted and insect-eaten through and through.
After pulling the boards up, I discovered a little treasure of sorts. It was a mouse nest, neatly tucked underneath the floor boards. It was ingeniously constructed and well maintained. I was impressed. For a brief moment, I wondered who was really out of place here. But it soon passed. I was not going to get fined by the utility company for some bonehead’s mis-measurement. I called out daughter out and had her take some pictures of the little den, replete with half eaten pecans, and an escape tunnel. Perhaps it might score her a few bonus points with her science teacher at school.
Needless to say, the flooring frame came up easily and folded even easier. By mid-afternoon I was done. The only thing missing was a cold beer. However, my wife respected my laments and brought back a six pack of cold Mexican beer that is a blessing in Texas, especially on warm afternoons.
So, as we tumble through the twenty first century bemoaning the fact that sprawl and suburbia are ruining the face and character of your wonderful nation remember there is something we can do about it. No, we cannot single-handedly halt the progression of sprawl, at least not physically. However, if we are willing to learn to use some tools and suffer a little cutting, bruising, and humiliation from time to time, we can slow the progress of sprawl within us. We can wrestle with the weeds in our lawns and joust falling fences. In doing so, not only do we get a chance to reclaim a little of our identity, but also to show what we’ve accomplished with a day’s worth of work.
Saturday, February 16, 2008
Peeing Outside
Recently, I had to go to the bathroom. Nothing abnormal or unusual about that. It happens to everyone, everyday and many times during any given day. There was a catch. I our bust and hectic lives, we have hired a housekeeper that comes every other week to clean. And when she cleans, stay out of the way. So, it goes without saying that my access was limited at best. Of course, when you have to go, you have to answer the call. And answer the call of the wild is exactly what I did.
Being blessed, in this instance, by birth of being male I was only limited to interior access for relief. What would be a better bonding experience than to take the dog out and water some weeds with him? I could not think of any better. Leaving my desk in the converted patio/office I use, we directly proceeded to the back of the rusting metal shed in the back corner of the backyard. Perfect cover.
Situating myself perfectly so the neighbors could not easily see me if they were peeking over the fence, and the housekeeper could not catch a glimpse of me should she happen to gaze out of one of the windows into the backyard, I commenced to relieve myself. Yes. It felt good. I even felt a little bit of primal adolescent essence creep up from the ground and surge its way into my chest. With my free hand I had to loosen my necktie and my sports coat seemed to become confining. Nature and I were bonding. I was recycling. And it was good.
Even the neighbors’ dogs silenced their barking. A few trips to the shared fence and they new that the alpha male was out. Reverence was called for. Perhaps I go a little too far waxing poetic. But the surge of sentimentality and frivolity this simple act brought about was almost too much. The sensation was visceral. And I even checked afterwards, making sure that I hadn’t peed on my foot or something of the like. No. It all went text book. Just like when I used to go camping, or would spend summers on my grandparents’ farm. It just felt right.
I mean this is important right. The whole suburban malaise and ennui effective was relieved in a single action, at least for a little while. And on top of that, here’s a man openly wanting to share his feelings…Can I get an “Amen,” damn it? This is big stuff here. It’s not just some juvenile action. This is a manly pose towards all that is good and wholesome left in the world. It is a restrained and quiet act of defiance against a corporate culture that praises homogeneity. I was asserting my independence in a very legal and natural way. Plus, it was way too cold to shuck the clothes and take a dip in the pool. Although, the recent warm snap did make me pause momentarily on my way to the backyard sojourn.
Regardless, it was a relieving act. My step was a little lighter but surer on my return. Some sense had been returned into the world, or at least mine. I now had more that a sneaking suspicion that it was going to be okay, at least for the rest of the day. It was a wonderfully decisive action that only the dog and I will ever be fully aware of. Mission accomplished. I shucked the neck tie after coming back into the office, but kept the sports coat on, just in case my wife called and wanted me to meet her somewhere for dinner. I had to make sure that I looked a little respectable if we were to go out.
Still today, when I am getting the morning coffee or squaring way the evening dishes, I can look out the kitchen window and see the spot. Yes, the exact spot. A little place where normalcy was created and the boundaries of time and distance were eliminated, along with a few other choice things. I wonder if it would be bad taste to erect a monument to the action. Nothing too big or obscene.
Being blessed, in this instance, by birth of being male I was only limited to interior access for relief. What would be a better bonding experience than to take the dog out and water some weeds with him? I could not think of any better. Leaving my desk in the converted patio/office I use, we directly proceeded to the back of the rusting metal shed in the back corner of the backyard. Perfect cover.
Situating myself perfectly so the neighbors could not easily see me if they were peeking over the fence, and the housekeeper could not catch a glimpse of me should she happen to gaze out of one of the windows into the backyard, I commenced to relieve myself. Yes. It felt good. I even felt a little bit of primal adolescent essence creep up from the ground and surge its way into my chest. With my free hand I had to loosen my necktie and my sports coat seemed to become confining. Nature and I were bonding. I was recycling. And it was good.
Even the neighbors’ dogs silenced their barking. A few trips to the shared fence and they new that the alpha male was out. Reverence was called for. Perhaps I go a little too far waxing poetic. But the surge of sentimentality and frivolity this simple act brought about was almost too much. The sensation was visceral. And I even checked afterwards, making sure that I hadn’t peed on my foot or something of the like. No. It all went text book. Just like when I used to go camping, or would spend summers on my grandparents’ farm. It just felt right.
I mean this is important right. The whole suburban malaise and ennui effective was relieved in a single action, at least for a little while. And on top of that, here’s a man openly wanting to share his feelings…Can I get an “Amen,” damn it? This is big stuff here. It’s not just some juvenile action. This is a manly pose towards all that is good and wholesome left in the world. It is a restrained and quiet act of defiance against a corporate culture that praises homogeneity. I was asserting my independence in a very legal and natural way. Plus, it was way too cold to shuck the clothes and take a dip in the pool. Although, the recent warm snap did make me pause momentarily on my way to the backyard sojourn.
Regardless, it was a relieving act. My step was a little lighter but surer on my return. Some sense had been returned into the world, or at least mine. I now had more that a sneaking suspicion that it was going to be okay, at least for the rest of the day. It was a wonderfully decisive action that only the dog and I will ever be fully aware of. Mission accomplished. I shucked the neck tie after coming back into the office, but kept the sports coat on, just in case my wife called and wanted me to meet her somewhere for dinner. I had to make sure that I looked a little respectable if we were to go out.
Still today, when I am getting the morning coffee or squaring way the evening dishes, I can look out the kitchen window and see the spot. Yes, the exact spot. A little place where normalcy was created and the boundaries of time and distance were eliminated, along with a few other choice things. I wonder if it would be bad taste to erect a monument to the action. Nothing too big or obscene.
Monday, January 21, 2008
BookTV…Me, and the other three
There is a certain sense of anticipation that arises along about Thursday night. I suppose that is part of the reason I find it so difficult to fall asleep. At least more difficult than normal. There is an electric sense of expectancy with more that just the weekend on its wings. No, there is something more. I rush about Friday telling my students this fabulous premonition that I know will come to pass, because I have witnessed it every weekend. The phenomenon is BookTV.
Never heard of it?...I’m not surprised. I have been told by an excellent source that I alone comprise one quarter of the viewing population of this regularly occurring weekend extravaganza. What it is? Simply, it is some of the best non-fiction writing put to air on cable television by the authors. Sometimes, it involves panels. This is when things get really heady and no one knows where the discussion may end up.
Sounds like something that Ralph Nader would drool over…Think again. I have been surprised to find that many of the teachers in our district’s social studies department regularly watch this program on the weekend. In fact, I think that seventy-fiver percent of the supposed viewing audience resides within the school district I teach in. However, I am skeptical that we three are almost all of the viewing audience for BookTV.
It should come as no surprise that the majority of the known viewing audience, from my perspective, is made up of teachers. The best time to watch BookTV is during school breaks…Christmas, Easter, MLK Day, etc. These breaks just so happen to correspond with legislative recesses. This is when C-SPAN has huge blocks of time open for programming. It follows that there is nothing better and more appealing that having nonfiction authors present their books. Who really wants to watch replays of the Bork confirmation hearings or the Iran-Contra hearings? Excellent fodder for students political science and government policy, but we know the outcome. It’s similar to watching ESPN Classic. We all know, if we’re interested, who won the 1984 Rose Bowl. While some of the plays may be memorable, the whole game is not.
On a more personal level, BookTV is a source for me. I am a reading junkie. I do not travel in social circles that have connections with the publishing houses of the East Coast or cavort with the literati. It is up to me to find new and interesting books. BookTV is my supplier of some of these titles. When I don’t get regular exposure, I do go through withdraw. It is an addiction. One that I happily imbibe in. I make no apologies, nor any excuses.
So, when you are cruising along the digital dial during the weekend and come across some channel with someone talking about their book on the insanity of Lincoln’s spouse or the San Francisco earthquake of 1906, take a moment and indulge yourself. You may find something you like and pick up the book at your local store or library. It may even serve as a bridge in an airport or café. Mention you heard about it on BookTV and it is almost guaranteed that a conversation will properly ensue with the other individual. Don’t mind the strange looks. You get used to them. I promise.
Never heard of it?...I’m not surprised. I have been told by an excellent source that I alone comprise one quarter of the viewing population of this regularly occurring weekend extravaganza. What it is? Simply, it is some of the best non-fiction writing put to air on cable television by the authors. Sometimes, it involves panels. This is when things get really heady and no one knows where the discussion may end up.
Sounds like something that Ralph Nader would drool over…Think again. I have been surprised to find that many of the teachers in our district’s social studies department regularly watch this program on the weekend. In fact, I think that seventy-fiver percent of the supposed viewing audience resides within the school district I teach in. However, I am skeptical that we three are almost all of the viewing audience for BookTV.
It should come as no surprise that the majority of the known viewing audience, from my perspective, is made up of teachers. The best time to watch BookTV is during school breaks…Christmas, Easter, MLK Day, etc. These breaks just so happen to correspond with legislative recesses. This is when C-SPAN has huge blocks of time open for programming. It follows that there is nothing better and more appealing that having nonfiction authors present their books. Who really wants to watch replays of the Bork confirmation hearings or the Iran-Contra hearings? Excellent fodder for students political science and government policy, but we know the outcome. It’s similar to watching ESPN Classic. We all know, if we’re interested, who won the 1984 Rose Bowl. While some of the plays may be memorable, the whole game is not.
On a more personal level, BookTV is a source for me. I am a reading junkie. I do not travel in social circles that have connections with the publishing houses of the East Coast or cavort with the literati. It is up to me to find new and interesting books. BookTV is my supplier of some of these titles. When I don’t get regular exposure, I do go through withdraw. It is an addiction. One that I happily imbibe in. I make no apologies, nor any excuses.
So, when you are cruising along the digital dial during the weekend and come across some channel with someone talking about their book on the insanity of Lincoln’s spouse or the San Francisco earthquake of 1906, take a moment and indulge yourself. You may find something you like and pick up the book at your local store or library. It may even serve as a bridge in an airport or café. Mention you heard about it on BookTV and it is almost guaranteed that a conversation will properly ensue with the other individual. Don’t mind the strange looks. You get used to them. I promise.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Dog Zen…Dzogchen…?
First off, I must admit that I title this missive with tongue fully implanted in my cheek. However, as the Buddhist teach, it is humor that some of the most profound truths arise. I find this particularly comforting as one particular Buddhist age and poet is named exactly…well not exactly this, Dogzen. Admittedly, I have enjoyed reading some of his work.
So what’s prompted this writing? Simple enough, it is stress. That all too familiar companion we walk with daily through our lives and loves. I know, mockingly, that without some form of stress our hearts would naturally cease to beat. It is without saying a vital part of our lives. I suppose, just like most of you, that we don’t need as much as we carry around with us. I know, also without going much further, that the majority of the stress comes from sources we can control, namely ourselves. I’m preaching to the choir and pointing at the proverbial timber in my own eye.
However, there is an odd correlation between an observed enlightenment, if I may be so presumptuous; I had the other night and the routine of our pet Shih-Tzu, Arlo. Every night, Arlo run puppy laps. After he comes in from his last trip to the backyard to leave a pile, a puddle, and make a little noise in the neighbors’ direction, he tears into the bedroom and commences to imitate a NASCAR race. Afterwards, panting, he ascends to our bed and commences to curl himself into a ball of fur. Not quite fully awake, nor completely asleep, Arlo watches us without actually staring at us. I suppose it must be something like a somnolent sentry. This usually lasts until I remove him from our bed when I am ready to go to sleep.
So what does this seemingly innocuous nightly routine of events have to do with a founding principle and school of thought within the Buddhist tradition…? Good question! The connection came together in my mind that night like to freight trains. It’s wonderful having glimpses of enlightenment such as this, but it’s hell when they keep you from getting some sleep because it sets your mind off on another tangent. Sleep just looks so pedestrian compared to occurrences such as this.
While the spelling of Dogzen is incorrect, it is based on the term’s Anglicized pronunciation. The correct…again, Anglicized, spelling is Dzogchen. Now, before we go any further, please let me set some minds at ease and dispel any misunderstandings and myths before they fester into arbitrary facts. I am not, nor claim to be anywhere near to resembling an expert on religion in general or Buddhism in particular. I can only claim fleeting forays into each. From the way I understand it, dzogchen is the natural and primordial state of every sentient being…Okay, sounds good to me.
Of course, I cannot leave it at that. It would be criminal to do so. It goes without saying that I had to research even more into the topic…So, I looked…All that I really found was more confusion. While I have not witnesses, I am sure that as I peered through web sites, dictionary entries, and encyclopedia articles my look of bewilderment probably resembled the dog when you speak to him and he cocks his head to one side. I am sure my glazed gaze matched his with the query of how can I understand what you’re saying…
So, I did what I have been trained to do, that is after researching a topic. I studied and observed perhaps the best practitioner of this ancient wisdom in the immediate vicinity, Arlo. For the following few evenings, I observed him. Oversome by this focus on seemingly oriental aspects, I even spent time with him in the backyard as he did his dog business and I pruned a shrub. Don’t even get me started on how far I was from anything that could be considered a bonsai…
Did this lead me to any further conclusions or deeper understandings? Well it did, to some extent…I found that the true understanding of dzogchen was just to know who you are and be it. A sort of Nike philosophy, echoing the slogan of “Just Do It.” This has been my focus since then. Am I claiming that I know who I am…most certainly not. But I am having more fun not posturing as much or stressing even less. Perhaps dogs do have a little something over on us. I just don’t think that I am ready to surrender my place on the evolutionary ladder. Especially not when we still have the faculty of toilet paper at our disposal.
So what’s prompted this writing? Simple enough, it is stress. That all too familiar companion we walk with daily through our lives and loves. I know, mockingly, that without some form of stress our hearts would naturally cease to beat. It is without saying a vital part of our lives. I suppose, just like most of you, that we don’t need as much as we carry around with us. I know, also without going much further, that the majority of the stress comes from sources we can control, namely ourselves. I’m preaching to the choir and pointing at the proverbial timber in my own eye.
However, there is an odd correlation between an observed enlightenment, if I may be so presumptuous; I had the other night and the routine of our pet Shih-Tzu, Arlo. Every night, Arlo run puppy laps. After he comes in from his last trip to the backyard to leave a pile, a puddle, and make a little noise in the neighbors’ direction, he tears into the bedroom and commences to imitate a NASCAR race. Afterwards, panting, he ascends to our bed and commences to curl himself into a ball of fur. Not quite fully awake, nor completely asleep, Arlo watches us without actually staring at us. I suppose it must be something like a somnolent sentry. This usually lasts until I remove him from our bed when I am ready to go to sleep.
So what does this seemingly innocuous nightly routine of events have to do with a founding principle and school of thought within the Buddhist tradition…? Good question! The connection came together in my mind that night like to freight trains. It’s wonderful having glimpses of enlightenment such as this, but it’s hell when they keep you from getting some sleep because it sets your mind off on another tangent. Sleep just looks so pedestrian compared to occurrences such as this.
While the spelling of Dogzen is incorrect, it is based on the term’s Anglicized pronunciation. The correct…again, Anglicized, spelling is Dzogchen. Now, before we go any further, please let me set some minds at ease and dispel any misunderstandings and myths before they fester into arbitrary facts. I am not, nor claim to be anywhere near to resembling an expert on religion in general or Buddhism in particular. I can only claim fleeting forays into each. From the way I understand it, dzogchen is the natural and primordial state of every sentient being…Okay, sounds good to me.
Of course, I cannot leave it at that. It would be criminal to do so. It goes without saying that I had to research even more into the topic…So, I looked…All that I really found was more confusion. While I have not witnesses, I am sure that as I peered through web sites, dictionary entries, and encyclopedia articles my look of bewilderment probably resembled the dog when you speak to him and he cocks his head to one side. I am sure my glazed gaze matched his with the query of how can I understand what you’re saying…
So, I did what I have been trained to do, that is after researching a topic. I studied and observed perhaps the best practitioner of this ancient wisdom in the immediate vicinity, Arlo. For the following few evenings, I observed him. Oversome by this focus on seemingly oriental aspects, I even spent time with him in the backyard as he did his dog business and I pruned a shrub. Don’t even get me started on how far I was from anything that could be considered a bonsai…
Did this lead me to any further conclusions or deeper understandings? Well it did, to some extent…I found that the true understanding of dzogchen was just to know who you are and be it. A sort of Nike philosophy, echoing the slogan of “Just Do It.” This has been my focus since then. Am I claiming that I know who I am…most certainly not. But I am having more fun not posturing as much or stressing even less. Perhaps dogs do have a little something over on us. I just don’t think that I am ready to surrender my place on the evolutionary ladder. Especially not when we still have the faculty of toilet paper at our disposal.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
A Final Ascent
It seems as if this blog has been populated with an overabundance of eulogies and remembrances for fallen and passed individuals. It is odd. I don’t think of myself as some sort of morbid gatekeeper, nor as some self-important public archivist. However, I suppose my profession of teaching history pulls my attention to stories like this particular one when surfing the information super highway.
I just read the Sir Edmund Hillary has passed on at the age of 88. I think a moment of reverent silence is in order, but I am not that presumptuous to think I can call for it. No. But, how is it that a junior high school teacher in the center of Central Texas is affect by the death of this man? I cannot honestly claim that I am weeping grieving tears as I compose this missive, but a little twinge in my heart did happen when I read the story of his death. Sir Edmund Hillary saved my life one day, not all that long ago.
It was nothing dramatic or daring. Never did it involve an actual cliff or include any rope of any sort. It was during my first year of teaching. I was desperate for a job after dropping out of seminary and moving back to Texas with my tail between my legs. I had thumped my bared chest before God and duly put in my place…Thankfully. This experience found me not only awash in Dallas ISD’s alternative certification program for those of us who had a college degree but nor certification, but also in an inner city urban campus.
I was the only male teacher in the sixth grade, and the only ESL teacher to boot in the upper grades of the school. No worries, right? Nothing was hanging in the balance, except for my livelihood, shelter, food, and essentials for my family and I. Trying to teaching students who were in the sixth grade with second and third grade reading scores was the norm. Try getting them not just to read, but to comprehend and retain information from grade-level social studies textbook. Nothing short of Herculean. But, that’s where Sir Edmund Hillary comes in.
It was his helping hand as I dangled off of a proverbial sheer cliff with jagged rocks of failure and insanity waiting to pummel me should I slip and fall. I was trying to follow the district scope and sequence as I taught social studies and language arts to disinterested and disaffected urban youth. I would have done better in giving a lesson on metrical feet in hip-hop compositions, or wire tricks from martial arts movies. To think of it, I might have enjoyed the experience more had I done that. But standards were in place and objectives had to be met.
Painfully coursing our way through southern Asia and India in the social studies curriculum, we hit a major snag. How could I make this information pertinent to inner city youth in South Dallas? The answer lay in the literature textbook. It just so happened that the curriculum specialists aligned the reading assignments in language arts with the social studies lessons. Yes, we had a narrative of Sir Edmund Hillary’s ascent to the top of the world, the peak of Mount Everest.
Being a good guide, Hillary did not do all of the work for me. I had to add a little excitement and drama to the already thrilling text. It was the best passage the textbook had to offer. And, it actually caught the students’ attentions. I have rarely expressed the amount of thanks for simple blessings as I did that first day of reading. I saw my own journey as a grueling uphill ascent to mastering the classroom. That in itself was a treacherous route with only one path. The orders were to keep moving. I could see Hillary’s hand in the blur of doubt and confusion that swarmed around my mind at the end of each day. I could make, he seemed to tell me. And, I did. I just had to move to a different mountain, so to say. Dallas was a failed ascent. But other mountains awaited me, and I met with success.
I know it sounds corny and sentimental, but I wanted to thank this man for making a few weeks in the first year of my teaching career sane and positive. Those few weeks kept me going long enough. I read about his death tonight and shared it with my wife who talked about the NPR story. She thought the fact that he was a bee keeper was charming and striking. Reflecting on it, I have to agree.
Perhaps this final facet of this man’s incredible life is the last lesson he is leaving for me…all of us. Even though we may achieve wondrous heights in our undertakings, sometimes quite literally, we need to remain grounded, also quite literally. Hillary climbed other mountains in other parts of the world, but he always returned home to his bees. Insects who seemingly mundane existence of doing what they were created to do, give us sweet, golden honey and beautiful scented flowers teach us to do what we were created to do with the same determination and gusto. We just need to figure out what peaks and which ranges to scale. So to you, Sir Edmund Hillary…Thank you…
I just read the Sir Edmund Hillary has passed on at the age of 88. I think a moment of reverent silence is in order, but I am not that presumptuous to think I can call for it. No. But, how is it that a junior high school teacher in the center of Central Texas is affect by the death of this man? I cannot honestly claim that I am weeping grieving tears as I compose this missive, but a little twinge in my heart did happen when I read the story of his death. Sir Edmund Hillary saved my life one day, not all that long ago.
It was nothing dramatic or daring. Never did it involve an actual cliff or include any rope of any sort. It was during my first year of teaching. I was desperate for a job after dropping out of seminary and moving back to Texas with my tail between my legs. I had thumped my bared chest before God and duly put in my place…Thankfully. This experience found me not only awash in Dallas ISD’s alternative certification program for those of us who had a college degree but nor certification, but also in an inner city urban campus.
I was the only male teacher in the sixth grade, and the only ESL teacher to boot in the upper grades of the school. No worries, right? Nothing was hanging in the balance, except for my livelihood, shelter, food, and essentials for my family and I. Trying to teaching students who were in the sixth grade with second and third grade reading scores was the norm. Try getting them not just to read, but to comprehend and retain information from grade-level social studies textbook. Nothing short of Herculean. But, that’s where Sir Edmund Hillary comes in.
It was his helping hand as I dangled off of a proverbial sheer cliff with jagged rocks of failure and insanity waiting to pummel me should I slip and fall. I was trying to follow the district scope and sequence as I taught social studies and language arts to disinterested and disaffected urban youth. I would have done better in giving a lesson on metrical feet in hip-hop compositions, or wire tricks from martial arts movies. To think of it, I might have enjoyed the experience more had I done that. But standards were in place and objectives had to be met.
Painfully coursing our way through southern Asia and India in the social studies curriculum, we hit a major snag. How could I make this information pertinent to inner city youth in South Dallas? The answer lay in the literature textbook. It just so happened that the curriculum specialists aligned the reading assignments in language arts with the social studies lessons. Yes, we had a narrative of Sir Edmund Hillary’s ascent to the top of the world, the peak of Mount Everest.
Being a good guide, Hillary did not do all of the work for me. I had to add a little excitement and drama to the already thrilling text. It was the best passage the textbook had to offer. And, it actually caught the students’ attentions. I have rarely expressed the amount of thanks for simple blessings as I did that first day of reading. I saw my own journey as a grueling uphill ascent to mastering the classroom. That in itself was a treacherous route with only one path. The orders were to keep moving. I could see Hillary’s hand in the blur of doubt and confusion that swarmed around my mind at the end of each day. I could make, he seemed to tell me. And, I did. I just had to move to a different mountain, so to say. Dallas was a failed ascent. But other mountains awaited me, and I met with success.
I know it sounds corny and sentimental, but I wanted to thank this man for making a few weeks in the first year of my teaching career sane and positive. Those few weeks kept me going long enough. I read about his death tonight and shared it with my wife who talked about the NPR story. She thought the fact that he was a bee keeper was charming and striking. Reflecting on it, I have to agree.
Perhaps this final facet of this man’s incredible life is the last lesson he is leaving for me…all of us. Even though we may achieve wondrous heights in our undertakings, sometimes quite literally, we need to remain grounded, also quite literally. Hillary climbed other mountains in other parts of the world, but he always returned home to his bees. Insects who seemingly mundane existence of doing what they were created to do, give us sweet, golden honey and beautiful scented flowers teach us to do what we were created to do with the same determination and gusto. We just need to figure out what peaks and which ranges to scale. So to you, Sir Edmund Hillary…Thank you…
Thursday, January 03, 2008
The Stpehen King Effect
Teaching public school serves as an insight and experiment into the realms of memory and time. These two subjects have been the prospect of serious study and tawdry jokes for ages. So who am I to add any depth or breadth of knowledge to these dilemmas and paradoxes? I am just a junior high school teacher recording what I see, hear, and experience daily in my vocation.
I am no literary scholar, nor do I harbor any pretenses to be one. I am just a teacher. However, I remember the rise and zenith of Stephen King’s out put and literary success. It was cool to be immersed in one of his novels during class. Especially if there was a cute girl there. King’s novels were one of the few pieces of writing that you could read openly and not be crucified for reading by your fellow classmates. It was socially safe reading. It was an easy topic of conversation that could bridge social gaps in the cafeteria.
As I have said before, times change and so do tastes. In some ways this is good. Otherwise, Dacron would still be all the rage and fire insurance would be worse that it already is for homeowners. Such is the case for Stephen King. What his legacy will be in the future, I cannot say. It is not my place. I am not a literary scholar, nor do I want to be. I cannot afford more student loans to add more letters after my name.
Stephen King will at least always be remembered by the general populace. He continues to provoke thought and conversation by scarring the shit out of us. And we keep reading. But he has “blipped” on my radar lately. It is probably the latest round of standardized testing. Those test that students finish in a few hours, but are given the day to take. Thus, the end result is either voracious reading or equally energetic snoring.
It was during this latest round of agony that I noticed a change in the reading habits of some of my students. I noticed more and more Stephen King novels appearing in the hands of the student populace. This didn’t really worry or excite me one way or the other. Of course, I am overjoyed that any student is reading under their own volition. That’s a given.
But as a teacher of history, I am constantly amused, for lack of a better term, at the significance of individuals in history and the seemingly cyclical nature of history. I won’t ensconce you with a protracted philosophical inquiry in which is more prevalent and correct. Let’s just say that I have witnessed compelling evidence to support both camps.
I don’t know if this is a natural reaction after the final Harry Potter book has been published and voraciously devoured by the rabid audience. It might be. It seems logical. The novels of Tolkien and Lewis have been exhausted after the films sparked a resurgence in reading them. But why Stephen King? Why now?
I don’t know. I am not sure if there is an answer. And if there is, I am not sure it is really a good one. At least not good enough for a quest to be launched to discover it. Needless to say, the Stephen King Effect is real. It has occurred in my classroom. It is not so much the effect of junior high students reading his novels, as the “community” their action creates. A “community” that I am a member of.
It is an odd sensation being on the other end of the spectrum. When I began reading Stephen King’s novels in junior high school, it empowered me. Sure the stories were great, and some of the “down trodden” lead characters gave hope to a sad sack miscreant like me, but it was the actually act that held the notorious notoriety. I loved the raised eyebrows and imagined whispering that my reading palate elicited.
Looking at in perspective now, I am sure those teachers at my junior high school were thinking and muttering similar declarations and questions as I have rolling around in my head and mouth. Does it really matter that this trend continues through the generations? Probably not. What ramifications will be the consequence of reading these adult novels as an adolescent? Probably few, if any. Look at my generation…heh, heh, heh…
Philosophically, this does raise the questions about childhood innocence. Cynically, it can be refuted by spending thirty seconds watching one of out non-stop news channels, surfing the Internet, or rolling across the now digital radio dial. But, we as a country want to cling to this image. It is reassuring and calming. It puts the chaotic and sometimes vicious adult world into a little better element. We can at least say, “It wasn’t always like this.” Sure…Right…It’s only a recent phenomenon that our understanding of childhood has come about. I am sure it has something to do with industrialization and globalization, but I am not smart enough to fully explore these aspects and facets of modern life. Probably best that I don’t, anyway…
So where does this leave me? Same place where I began, but a little more wise, and perhaps with a few more “cool points” according to my students. Those few who were reading Stephen King novels after finishing their tests…We built a bridge. Hopefully it was another pier in the generation gap. Going around and checking on the students, I was able to strike up a small conversation with these readers. Casual remarks, such as “Don’t you think the mother is a real pain in that one?” rolled through the whispering. The looks, smiles, and replies that these comments garnered were priceless.
I am no literary scholar, nor do I harbor any pretenses to be one. I am just a teacher. However, I remember the rise and zenith of Stephen King’s out put and literary success. It was cool to be immersed in one of his novels during class. Especially if there was a cute girl there. King’s novels were one of the few pieces of writing that you could read openly and not be crucified for reading by your fellow classmates. It was socially safe reading. It was an easy topic of conversation that could bridge social gaps in the cafeteria.
As I have said before, times change and so do tastes. In some ways this is good. Otherwise, Dacron would still be all the rage and fire insurance would be worse that it already is for homeowners. Such is the case for Stephen King. What his legacy will be in the future, I cannot say. It is not my place. I am not a literary scholar, nor do I want to be. I cannot afford more student loans to add more letters after my name.
Stephen King will at least always be remembered by the general populace. He continues to provoke thought and conversation by scarring the shit out of us. And we keep reading. But he has “blipped” on my radar lately. It is probably the latest round of standardized testing. Those test that students finish in a few hours, but are given the day to take. Thus, the end result is either voracious reading or equally energetic snoring.
It was during this latest round of agony that I noticed a change in the reading habits of some of my students. I noticed more and more Stephen King novels appearing in the hands of the student populace. This didn’t really worry or excite me one way or the other. Of course, I am overjoyed that any student is reading under their own volition. That’s a given.
But as a teacher of history, I am constantly amused, for lack of a better term, at the significance of individuals in history and the seemingly cyclical nature of history. I won’t ensconce you with a protracted philosophical inquiry in which is more prevalent and correct. Let’s just say that I have witnessed compelling evidence to support both camps.
I don’t know if this is a natural reaction after the final Harry Potter book has been published and voraciously devoured by the rabid audience. It might be. It seems logical. The novels of Tolkien and Lewis have been exhausted after the films sparked a resurgence in reading them. But why Stephen King? Why now?
I don’t know. I am not sure if there is an answer. And if there is, I am not sure it is really a good one. At least not good enough for a quest to be launched to discover it. Needless to say, the Stephen King Effect is real. It has occurred in my classroom. It is not so much the effect of junior high students reading his novels, as the “community” their action creates. A “community” that I am a member of.
It is an odd sensation being on the other end of the spectrum. When I began reading Stephen King’s novels in junior high school, it empowered me. Sure the stories were great, and some of the “down trodden” lead characters gave hope to a sad sack miscreant like me, but it was the actually act that held the notorious notoriety. I loved the raised eyebrows and imagined whispering that my reading palate elicited.
Looking at in perspective now, I am sure those teachers at my junior high school were thinking and muttering similar declarations and questions as I have rolling around in my head and mouth. Does it really matter that this trend continues through the generations? Probably not. What ramifications will be the consequence of reading these adult novels as an adolescent? Probably few, if any. Look at my generation…heh, heh, heh…
Philosophically, this does raise the questions about childhood innocence. Cynically, it can be refuted by spending thirty seconds watching one of out non-stop news channels, surfing the Internet, or rolling across the now digital radio dial. But, we as a country want to cling to this image. It is reassuring and calming. It puts the chaotic and sometimes vicious adult world into a little better element. We can at least say, “It wasn’t always like this.” Sure…Right…It’s only a recent phenomenon that our understanding of childhood has come about. I am sure it has something to do with industrialization and globalization, but I am not smart enough to fully explore these aspects and facets of modern life. Probably best that I don’t, anyway…
So where does this leave me? Same place where I began, but a little more wise, and perhaps with a few more “cool points” according to my students. Those few who were reading Stephen King novels after finishing their tests…We built a bridge. Hopefully it was another pier in the generation gap. Going around and checking on the students, I was able to strike up a small conversation with these readers. Casual remarks, such as “Don’t you think the mother is a real pain in that one?” rolled through the whispering. The looks, smiles, and replies that these comments garnered were priceless.
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